Justice
by ChaosAme
Summary: The civilised world has calmed...and the people want justice to be served. Shinra's elite "Turks" are brought to trial for their crimes...but what exactly is "justice"?


"Next!"

A small moment of mayhem, as the last man in grey, eyes sunken, chains binding his hands, is led out. To that chair, to utter annhialation. He is cast a sharp, cold glance, as he is brought in to replace the one person he'd never thought he'd see in that kind of getup. Black eyes meet vivid green, before a hand of authority turns that head, and for the last time, he watches it disappear out the door. Only this time, the white scalp is visible, instead of gleaming black, and this time, it's forever.

"Renaud Justine Sinclair. Ten counts destruction of public property - eight authorised. Thirty-two counts fraud - twenty-eight authorised."

He listens as the man who led his big party of burly, dangerous-looking men who won't talk to him in reads from his long list of crimes. He knows that the cameras around him are showcasing his own head, mostly bald too. His hair grows a little faster, so there's a smattering of orange across his skull. Imagining it, he is reminded of his father. The lucky, dead bastard.

"Eight counts theft - two authorised. Sixteen counts breaking and entering - twelve authorised. Four reported counts of assault and battery - one authorised."

He knows the judge should say something about the fact that his wording there was biassed. He wonders if the judge knows that, and then smirks at the idea that he, the criminal, knows more about the law than those who are charging him. Not a surprise. It pays to know your enemy.

"One count resisting arrest."

Whoops. Could you really say you hadn't expected it, from him? Of course not.

"Sixteen counts public intoxication, unaccounted for." The man pauses to look up at the judge. "The ShinRa Company accounts for the rest, Sir, if you would like me to read those?"

"No, there's no need. Go on." Bastard. The man clears his throat, and continues.

"Fourty-three filed claims of sexual harrassment. One count rape - authorised."

There was that biassed way of speaking again. The list of crimes is getting progressively worse. He knows it's coming, that moment when the people behind the cameras, on the other side of the world, start murmuring to themselves. The people who can't imagine the kinds of numbers they're about to present. The people whose lives he had, in fact, protected. The people who want him dead, just like them.

"One count child endangerment. One count assisted suicide. One-thousand two-hundred sixty-five counts of obstruction of justice."

There it comes. He has to fight back the cringe, but ends up realising he doesn't, really. He's too well trained for that. Inwardly, somewhere still sane, he wonders how they actually managed to dig up all those numbers. The angry part of him curses ShinRa, curses the debriefings they were so picky about, curses his companions for even mentioning his name. The part of him that isn't sane laughs, and makes a crude comment about the fact that not _every_ detail was told in those debriefings, despite the penalties, and wasn't that a nice relief for the onlookers? The scared part just cries.

"One count third degree murder - unauthorised." Another pause, as the man lowers his book and peers over his papers at the accused. He just stares straight ahead, hands clasped neatly before him, feet shoulder-width. He's never looked so professional as he does in the clothes of the damned. The man waits a moment, for effect, and then continues.

"One hundred six counts second degree murder - one hundred five authorised."

He can feel it, he can feel the gasps and disbelieving whispers of the unseen audience, just like he can feel the heat of his body rising. His blood boiling to a frenzy, as every part of him screams in anger, fear, pity, merciless homicidal mania. He's a trained man. He shows nothing, and waits for his own fatal number.

"Seven hundred thirty-one counts first degree murder. All authorised." Having taken special care to weight every single one of those words individually, the man lets his hands fall to his side, takes off his glasses, and peers at the accused once more. He's still watching him when he addresses the judge. "His sentence?"

"Death." The one word rings out in that hall, which feels like it is filled now with the thousands of souls, those who died in explosions, torture chambers. Of everything from drowning, to fatal internal injuries, to electrocution. He knows them. He knows them well. They're the souls that have followed him throughout his entire life, those who made his father scream in agony in his sleep, scaring him too as a child. Those who keep him awake sometimes with the sound of their desperate voices, whose eyes he saw reflected in the polished surface of his prison bed. They are the thousands who died for his sins, and they are unforgiving.

As he is taken off, with the clambering of a gavel, he keeps his eyes ahead. He knows he is smiling; he can feel it with his soul as well as his lips. His entire being is burning. It's his turn now. As he killed, so let him be killed. It was the law of the new land, and he _loved_ it.

"Any last words?" The voice of the masked man penetrates his psyche like a knife to the gut. His eyes, he knows, have turned into a swirling dark green, and he forces them to look up into those of his condemner. The smile is unchanging, lips wide and thin as his father's making him look eerie as he is reflected in those innocent, hazel eyes. They're scared. He feels a tiny surge of pride.

"Yeah," he hears himself say, though he could swear his lips aren't moving. He can feel the pulse of his body, the swirling cool of his soul as it overtakes him. The same sensation he's so used to these days, his companion in solitude. His partner in crime. And this is it. This is all he's ever, really, dreamed.

"I'll miss it."


End file.
